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Marie did as she was bid. She closed the door and sat down on the chair that was nearest to her.

“Marie,” said La Mere Bauche–and the voice sounded fierce in the poor girl’s ears, and an angry fire glimmered through the green glasses–“what is all this about that I hear? Do you dare to say that you hold my son bound to marry you?” And then the august mother paused for an answer.

But Marie had no answer to give. See looked suppliantly towards her lover, as though beseeching him to carry on the fight for her. But if she could not do battle for herself, certainly he could not do it for her. What little amount of fighting he had had in him, had been thoroughly vanquished before her arrival.

“I will have an answer, and that immediately,” said Madame Bauche. “I am not going to be betrayed into ignominy and disgrace by the object of my own charity. Who picked you out of the gutter, miss, and brought you up and fed you, when you would otherwise have gone to the foundling? And this is your gratitude for it all? You are not satisfied with being fed and clothed and cherished by me, but you must rob me of my son! Know this then, Adolphe shall never marry a child of charity such as you are.”

Marie sat still, stunned by the harshness of these words. La Mere Bauche had often scolded her; indeed, she was given to much scolding; but she had scolded her as a mother may scold a child. And when this story of Marie’s love first reached her ears, she had been very angry; but her anger had never brought her to such a pass as this. Indeed, Marie had not hitherto been taught to look at the matter in this light. No one had heretofore twitted her with eating the bread of charity. It had not occurred to her that on this account she was unfit to be Adolphe’s wife. There, in that valley, they were all so nearly equal, that no idea of her own inferiority had ever pressed itself upon her mind. But now–!

When the voice ceased she again looked at him; but it was no longer a beseeching look. Did he also altogether scorn her? That was now the inquiry which her eyes were called upon to make. No; she could not say that he did. It seemed to her that his energies were chiefly occupied in pulling to pieces the tassel on the sofa cushion.

“And now, miss, let me know at once whether this nonsense is to be over or not,” continued La Mere Bauche; “and I will tell you at once, I am not going to maintain you here, in my house, to plot against our welfare and happiness. As Marie Clavert you shall not stay here. Capitaine Campan is willing to marry you; and as his wife I will keep my word to you, though you little deserve it. If you refuse to marry him, you must go. As to my son, he is there; and he will tell you now, in my presence, that he altogether declines the honour you propose for him.”

And then she ceased, waiting for an answer, drumming the table with a wafer stamp which happened to be ready to her hand; but Marie said nothing. Adolphe had been appealed to; but Adolphe had not yet spoken.

“Well, miss?” said La Mere Bauche

Then Marie rose from her seat, and walking round she touched Adolphe lightly on the shoulder. “Adolphe,” she said, “it is for you to speak now. I will do as you bid me.”

He gave a long sigh, looked first at Marie and then at his mother, shook himself slightly, and then spoke: “Upon my word, Marie, I think mother is right. It would never do for us to marry; it would not indeed.”